


Cake

by betp



Series: From Tumblr [6]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, mild alcohol use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-25
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-04-28 03:01:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5075245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betp/pseuds/betp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Birthday kiss or <em>bust</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cake

Stiles is turning 22 tonight. 

He’s really excited about his birthday party, too, almost as excited as Scott is. He keeps clapping his hands and singing and bringing up conversations about birthdays. It’s like being in a room with a particularly charismatic kindergartner. 

“You know what’s great about birthdays?” he asks Derek, who’s swatting his hands away from a bowl of cake batter. (He owes Scott his life fifty times over, so he had to make the cake.) 

“What’s that.” Derek doesn’t know why he’s asking.  

“Everybody congratulates you and wishes you a happy birthday, that’s what.” Stiles beams. “It’s like I did something worth celebrating. I didn’t do shit. Everybody should be congratulating my dead mom.” 

“Or Scott,” Derek suggests wryly, measuring out cocoa powder. “For putting up with you for seventeen years.” 

“He’s really good at that,” Stiles sighs happily. 

“Or _me_. Similar reasons.” 

"Bite me, Lon Chaney.” _Don’t think I won’t_. Derek smacks his creeping hand with the wooden spoon. “Ow, _fuck_. You know, the cake is _for me_.” 

“That’s the thing about birthday cakes,” Derek agrees irritably. “They only belong to the birthday person once they’re _physically a cake_.” 

“ _You’re_ physically a cake,” Stiles retorts. Then he bursts into his fiftieth rendition of Taylor Swift’s 22. Derek can’t wait until next year, when Stiles’ birthday song will have to be by Blink 182. 

Derek isn’t all that angry about it, though. As fucking obnoxious as Stiles is, there’s something infectious about his self-centered pleasure. It’s like watching someone laugh at a funny line in a book they’re reading quietly in a coffee shop. Derek wants to check the title and try to guess where they are in it, remember reading it himself for the first time. That’s what it’s like. 

He aggressively stirs the cake batter in lieu of digging for the hand mixer. Anything to distract himself from happy 22-year-olds. 

Stiles laughs to himself, suddenly. “You’re physically a cake,” he repeats. “I’m funny.” 

Derek hits him with the spoon again, just for good measure, and watches him laugh at his own pain. 

// 

"Aren’t you coming?” Stiles asks Derek once the cake has been baked, frosted, candled, blown, and consumed. He’s tugging on a scarf, smelling like hair gel and chocolate. There’s something about that particular aroma that makes Derek want to curl up or make Stiles stay here, but that’s weird. 

“Let me see,” Derek says, folding his arms. “Am I going to a house party full of drunken college students to watch you beg for lap dances? No. I think I’m not.” 

“You have me pegged _all wrong_ , buckaroo.” Stiles points at him confrontationally. “I will be asking for _body shots_. Okay? You don’t _know_ me.” 

"I stand corrected.” Derek feels stupid, but he can’t stop talking. That’s what Stiles does, is there’s something about his stupid face that makes Derek say things. He’d rather not. Life would be easier if Stiles would leave him alone. But then, Derek might not say anything to anyone except his potted cactus and Scott for the rest of his life. 

“I am _determined_ , okay?” Stiles is still jabbing his finger at Derek’s chest. “I will get a birthday kiss. Okay? I will _get_ one. It will be _mine_.” 

Derek thinks about kissing him. It would be funny, Derek thinks. He’s just so fired up. It would be like if the search for the holy grail ended in thirty seconds. If someone just walked in and handed it to you. Would that make the quest less special? Would the real treasure suddenly not be the friendships built along the way?

Derek doesn’t kiss him. As many reasons as there are to kiss Stiles, there are just as many reasons _not_ to kiss him, chief of which being that it would confuse and upset Stiles right when he’s gearing himself up. It would be awkward, which would in turn make Stiles feel guilty. It would ruin his 22nd birthday. 

"Good luck with that,” Derek tells him. It comes out just as flat as it feels. 

Stiles misreads it as sarcasm. “I’ll _do_ it,” he yells, adjusting his weird, tiny cone hat. “It’s my birthday! I’m gonna get a kiss! Like, _mwa_ —right on the lips!”

Outside and downstairs, in the parking lot, faint but vehement support from Scott can be heard.

Grinning, Stiles shoves his way past Derek, and then stops short. Turns around. “I need real luck. Wish me real luck. Cast me a spell.” 

Derek rolls his eyes. Like he won’t get kissed. It’s absurd, the very idea.

Derek’s weird fixation on his soft, pink lips aside, Stiles is objectively tall, handsome, and funny. There will be, at minimum, three cute, tipsy girls who find him attractive and believe in birthday kisses. Derek has been to a party before, and he knows without a doubt; there will be a girl to kiss Stiles. His overzealousness, occasional rudeness won’t even be on her radar. She’ll have soft hair and probably there will be glitter on her eyelids. She’ll be holding a red cup. 

He doesn’t tell Stiles this. What he does say is, “Alakazam.” 

Stiles looks torn between amusement and genuine frustration. There’s a moment, when Stiles is staring intently at him, that would be well suited for—

But Scott taps his car horn outside, and Derek misses this moment. Stiles points at him again. “Birthday kiss or _bust_ ,” he says. 

// 

Derek has an Instagram. It’s a website? Or an app? Derek’s not sure which one it is, but he has it on his phone. It’s the best way to keep in touch. His baby sister lives on the other side of the world, but he gets to look at pictures of her and her friends, squinting against the sun, or standing on top of rock formations. He gets to look at pictures of the album art for whatever she likes to listen to. He gets to know that she wears round sunglasses and one of those tiny black leather backpacks with the long, skinny straps that he thought went out in the nineties. He gets to make shitty comments about all of the above. 

The same could be said for Jackson, who mostly posts black-and-white pictures of London, and Isaac, who takes a picture of his lunch every goddamn day. And Stiles, who posts a picture of himself roughly once or twice a month, beaming, usually with an arm thrown around Scott. 

Tonight, he’s glowing blue in a very dark room, surrounded by people on all sides. His hat is gone, and he looks almost serene, out of place in the chaotic environment. Derek, lying on his couch in his sock feet, frowns at the picture, at the bizarreness of Stiles and the arch of his eyelashes, the spill of his wavy, messy hair. Some people can really pull off the bedhead look. This guy can’t. 

Just over Stiles’ shoulder, there’s a girl noticing him, lips parted, eyes wide and dark. You can practically see the beeline she’s about to make for Stiles. Derek can hear the conversation, Stiles yelling his name over the sound of the music, the girl’s intrigued smile. Derek shuts his phone off.  

// 

It’s past two in the morning when someone thumps on Derek’s door. Derek knows it’s Stiles before he even approaches the entryway, because he can hear him singing quietly to himself, “You, look… so tired-unhappy, bring…”

Derek wrenches the door open, and Stiles falls in with it, crashes into Derek’s chest. He peers up at Derek, pleased. “Mm, hi,” he says. 

“You’re drunk,” Derek replies. 

“Sorry,” says Stiles. “I know tha’s ironic. Suprise.” 

“Not surprised. How was your birthday party?” Derek asks, leading him to the bed with a firm hand on his arm. “God, does Scott know you’re here?” He sits heavily on the edge, thoughtfully pets Derek’s rumpled duvet. 

“This is shiny,” he comments. “I like, you’re wearin’ pajamas, where’d you get ‘em. I sang Radiohead jus’ now—” 

“None of these is an answer to my questions,” Derek says, mouth tugging into a grin against his will. 

“I was esstremely kissable tonight,” Stiles tells him, quiet and matter-of-fact. He’s nodding, eyebrows up, that one illusive dimple poking itself into his cheek. “Right?” 

“Yeah,” Derek says before he can think. 

Stiles tosses his hands up, all _well?_. “You know how many kisses I received?” He holds up one finger. 

Derek feels a little nauseated in spite of himself. “One?” 

Stiles looks startled by his finger. Folds the finger flat with his other palm. “None,” he says, brandishing the remaining fist. Derek gives him a look. “With the _face_ again,” Stiles breathes. Then he rejoins, loudly, “ _None_! Your _spell_ did not _work_. I don’ know what t’believe!” 

Nor does Derek. Stiles must be mistaken. Or maybe he left the party too soon to kiss Instagram girl. “You should believe you need a cup of coffee.” 

“You don’ like me,” Stiles tells him earnestly. “I get that, but it’s not easy. I thought, I thought if I _told_ you. I thought if I told you birthday kiss or _bust_. Right?” 

Derek sighs. 

"Look at me,” Stiles pleads. 

Derek does. He looks… good. He’s all trussed up for a party, a dark, soft sweater that’s tugged down under his collarbone and nicer pants than he ordinarily wears, but it’s all smudged sideways like a pencil mark someone dragged their wrist over. Derek wants to fix it. 

It’s in the middle of the night, and Stiles smells sweet, like all the cocktails he drank left just the sugars and the fruit and none of the alcohol. He looks sweet, too, eyes batting at Derek softly. The moonlight brushes the side of his face, and Derek wants to put his fingers there, where the light is sharp on his plush lower lip. He wants to take Stiles in his arms, shove him into the sheets. Maybe he’d be able to look at him better if they were intertwined. Instead, he disengages Stiles’ fingers from where they’re tangled in the hem of Derek’s shirt. 

“But iss not right,” Stiles says almost inaudibly. “I’m not kissable.” He looks at Derek with bright eyes and repeats, appalled, “I’m _not_ kissable!”  

"Stiles,” Derek says before he can stop himself. Then he pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“You _lied_ to me,” Stiles accuses. “You’re not a cake at _all_.” 

_Am too_. “I’m gonna get you some water,” Derek tells him, "try not to break anything in the next forty-five seconds," and escapes to the kitchen. 

// 

An hour later, Stiles is nursing a plastic bottle of water, and he smells significantly more unhappy than when he first showed up. But he’s coherent, at least. 

"Did you drive here?” Derek is wondering, where he’s thrown himself back against the pillows. 

“Took a cab,” Stiles says, one arm thrown over his eyes. His mouth twists thoughtfully. 

“You feeling all right?” 

“M’not gonna barf, if that’s what you mean.”

It wasn’t. “How much did you drink?” 

“Not enough to warrant showing up on your porch.” 

_And yet_ , Derek thinks, but doesn’t say.  

“ _God_ , I’m stupid,” Stiles laughs. “Worst birthday ever. And it’s no one’s fault but mine.” Derek considers this; he feels at least some culpability. Before he can say anything, Stiles adds, “I’ll leave soon. I’m s—I shouldn’t have shown up here at fuck o’clock like this.” 

“I don’t mind,” Derek says sincerely. “I wasn’t sleeping.” It’s true. He wasn’t. He was thinking about Instagram girl. 

“I go to this fucking _party_ ,” Stiles mutters, more or less to himself. “And I’m having _zero_ fun, and I think, _I_ know. _I_ know how to forget about this, I will drink _four million_ vodka cranberries.” That explains the sweet smell. “Then I will show up at the house of the person I—” He addresses Derek violently, like Derek made him start talking. “This is a long time coming,” he says. 

Derek feels a strong pull towards Stiles, a pull that he almost doesn’t disregard, a pull that he almost accepts, lets it make him draw forward and kiss Stiles’ mouth. Almost. “What is.” 

"This moment, where I have to face the _truth_ ,” Stiles tells him. “Where I have to accept that I squander all my opportunities. Did you know Erica had a crush on me?” 

The abrupt subject change gives Derek whiplash. “Yeah,” he says. 

“ _Seriously_?” Stiles whines. 

"Yeah?” Should he have said no?

“Well, I blew her off, did you know that?” Stiles hands Derek the water bottle; Derek doesn’t know why, but he takes it. “I was obsessed with _Lydia_. I was so hung up on Lydia I didn’t see anything around me for _years_. Some girl would talk to me, and I would think, _Lydia_. What’s _Lydia_ doing. Who is _Lydia_ dating.” 

"So you were a teenager with a crush,” Derek dismisses. “You should be ashamed.” 

“It wasn’t because I was _young_ , because I still do it _now_ , get it?” 

"You’re still in love with Lydia?” Do the blows never _stop_? Derek rubs his temple. 

“No, not _Lydia_.” 

Derek thinks about this. “Are you still hung up on my cousin?” 

"No,” Stiles snaps. “Yes. _No_ , I don’t know. She’s not the point.” 

"Then what _is_ the point?” 

"This guy comes up to me, and he hands me a drink,” Stiles says, “and he asks me if I wanna get outta here, and I just look at him, I _looked_ at him, and I thought, I wonder what _Derek’s_ doing.” 

Derek fumbles the water bottle. It soaks his shirt. Stiles doesn’t seem to notice; the floodgates are open, and the words keep coming. 

"And it’s Lydia all _over_ again,” he’s almost yelling at the ceiling. “I’m wandering around like, oh, bluh, why am I alone, why can’t I kiss anyone, and then someone comes up to me wearing a fucking, a fucking _sign_ that says, like, _let’s make out_ , and I’m like, hold on, what if I _ruined_ this for myself, though? What if I shot down this person because I’m fixated on someone who’s made it _abundantly clear_ they don’t want me, let’s consider _all_ the options!” 

"Shut the hell up,” Derek says, and Stiles’ voice strangles. He covers his face with both hands. _Who_ made _what_ abundantly clear? “Let me fucking _think_.” 

“I can walk straight now,” Stiles replies into his own hands, moving to get up. “I can—” 

Derek pins him back down against the pillows with a palm to his chest. Was _that_ what Stiles was doing before he left? _Baiting_ Derek, trying to get him to make a move? Stiles is _really bad_ at sending signals. Or Derek is really bad at _interpreting_ them. Either way, everything Stiles has said to Derek, every time he’s ever so much as looked at him, now has an asterisk next to it. Every weird, cryptic comment Scott ever made about Stiles to Derek, the time Malia announced she didn’t want to be around either of them, Derek’s last birthday, when Stiles sent him a bouquet of fruit-on-a-stick. All of it is suddenly up for fresh interpretation, and it would be too easy for Derek to let his introverted nature take over and focus on the recent past instead of what’s going on right in front of him—

“It’s late,” Stiles comments, struggling again against Derek’s hand. “I should run away forever. I’ll call you when I get to hell—” 

“My shirt’s wet,” Derek says with new conviction. 

“Huh?” 

Sinuously, Derek peels his tank off, uses the dry parts of it to blot cursorily at himself. Stiles is watching, blinking rapidly, like he’s just woken up, and Derek could explain himself faster, but he’s enjoying this. Watching Stiles watch him, and knowing what it means. Presently, he asks, “You still want that birthday kiss, or would you rather just whine indefinitely?” 

“Whine indefinitely,” Stiles chooses, knees crooking as he sits up, “hands down. Get _over_ here.” 

Derek doesn’t get over there. He grabs Stiles and yanks him close, kisses him hard and finally puts his hands on that waist of his. He feels Stiles simultaneously tense up with purpose and go limp with gratification. Then he opens his eyes and looks at his dark eyes, his mouth. 

“ _Damn_ ,” Stiles says huskily. 

// 

They don’t have sex. Instead, Derek unwraps Stiles like _he’s_ the birthday present, nestles him in the center of the bed. Instead, they kiss until Derek’s lips are numb and Stiles is occasionally falling asleep in his arms. Instead, Derek makes him warm and soft, maneuvers him against his chest, and lays there, feeling victorious. And sleepy. 

"When I’m no longer drunk,” Stiles says, wobbly, muffled. “A treatise, by Stiles.”

“Shut up,” Derek mutters into his hair. 

“When I’m no longer drunk,” he goes on instead, “we’re gonna do stuff. A lot.” 

“Not if you don’t shut _up_.” 

"It’s gonna be great. I wanna see your dick. N’interact with it, n’stuff.” 

“I’m gonna cut it off and hide it if you don’t _shut up_.” 

Stiles heaves one glorious, ecstatic sigh. “M’kay.” 

His hair isn’t as soft as it looks; in fact, it’s coarse, wiry. But something about that is good. Maybe just the fact that Stiles’ soft hair was a fantasy, and his horrible, untamable hair is reality. Derek strokes it contentedly with his fingertips, feels Stiles drift closer and closer to sleep. “Happy birthday,” Derek mumbles. 

The last thing he hears before losing consciousness is Stiles responding, “Mister president.” 

 

 


End file.
